Lady and the Rake

by Anders, Annabelle

  Because they had decided to end things. Hadn’t they? They’d decided they could not have a future together. And she’d asked him to go—to leave her—so that she could move on with her life.

  What could he possibly have to say to her? Sitting on the loveseat with Penelope across from her knitting, she stared at it with mixed feelings—craving his words but also dreading them.

  “Something wrong?” Penelope must have sensed Margaret’s change in mood.

  Margaret stared over the top of the letter with raised brows. “He wrote to me.” She lowered the envelope to just beneath her chin.

  “Lord Rockingham?” Penelope set her knitting aside.

  Margaret bit her lip and nodded.

  “Are you going to open it?”

  “I will. I just… didn’t expect…”

  For three days after Sebastian departed, Margaret had remained in bed, unable to eat, feeling dead inside, until Penelope finally had taken drastic measures and brought the children to her chamber. Penelope had not asked any questions or even made any comments. She’d mentioned that she’d told the other guests that Margaret had caught a cold and did not wish to spread it.

  On the fourth day, Margaret had risen and dressed and assisted Penelope with her duties as hostess. Her heart had ached, and she’d felt utterly empty, but she would not allow herself to wallow indefinitely.

  Not for the first time in her life, she forced herself to go on—to smile and laugh and be sociable despite the despair that filled her heart. She was rather good at it, really.

  Nonetheless, by the time the last coach filled with house party guests drove away from the manor, she and Margaret and Hugh had all breathed a great sigh of relief. It was a wonderful thing to welcome guests for a few weeks of games and good food and conversation and company, Penelope had announced, but it was equally as wonderful to wave goodbye.

  Margaret had not told Sebastian goodbye. It haunted her sometimes.

  “Shall I leave you alone to read it?” Penelope’s voice drew her back to the present. This wasn’t the first time her sister-in-law had gone out of her way to allow Margaret more privacy.

  “No. No. It’s likely nothing.” And to convince herself, she added, “He’s probably asking about the ring.” It sat in her brother’s safe. She hadn’t understood why he’d left it sitting atop her wardrobe beside the book he’d loaned her. She’d almost wondered if it was because he needed to remain connected with her somehow--no matter how tenuous. The ring would be returned to his family, but she would keep his book. She’d read it twice and imagined the words as they must have played in his mind—the seeds it had planted there.

  George had written weeks ago, demanding the ring’s return, insisting his new wife was anxious to take possession of it. Remembering Miss Drake’s love of fashion, Margaret doubted that that was the case. Rather than hire a courier, however, Hugh had responded that they would return it at their convenience. He’d told Margaret not to worry. He would deliver it personally when next he was in London.

  “Or perhaps he has poured out his heart and is declaring his undying love,” Penelope offered with an ironic glint in her eyes.

  Margaret was coming to appreciate Penelope’s sense of humor and couldn’t help but smile and wince at the suggestion. “Highly doubtful.”

  And yet a foolish part of her heart longed for just that. Despite his age. Despite his dreams. Despite her dreams. How had he come to mean so much to her so quickly?

  She swallowed hard and then slid the opener along the end of the envelope. She was not fool enough to imagine that he loved her. He was young, handsome, and charming. Likely he’d already forgotten much of their time spent together. It was possible he’d already moved on to someone else. Some available woman in London.

  She blinked away the stinging in her eyes as she withdrew the letter from its envelope.

  The left edge was torn, and she recognized the paper from one of his journals. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine his scent, but she knew it must be her imagination. He’d been gone for over a month now. Forty-two days to be exact.

  London, Dated November 20th, 1828

  Dear Maggie,

  Never has there been a road longer than the highway between Land’s End and London, especially when every damn step my horse took carried me farther from you. Ambivalence lengthened my journey. I cannot tell you how many times I contemplated turning around, going back for you, persuading you to see matters my way.

  But you were right.

  I wasn’t going to write you, initially. Even now I wonder if I will mail this. But I promised I would share my adventures with you and I’ve failed you in so many ways that I’ll be damned if I’ll fail you on this.

  The Diana is magnificent, a work of art, literally. The builder commissioned a carving of a woman reaching forward from the stern. She reminds me of you standing on the cliff, the wind in your hair, not afraid of anything.

  The issues with the propellers have been resolved, and we’ve managed to hire an experienced and enthusiastic crew. We’re set to sail tomorrow and the person I most want to celebrate with is on the opposite side of England. You’ll think me foolish, but I walked past your townhouse in Mayfair today. I thought it might make me feel closer to you. Call me foolish but I could almost pretend you would emerge on the front step.

  God damnit, Maggie, you should be here. I’d have delayed my journey for you. I’m so damn mad at you, and it doesn’t make sense.

  I miss you.

  Yours,

  Sebastian

  His voice sounded in her mind as she read it, making him seem like he was in the same room and not thousands of miles away. She returned it to the envelope, knowing that later she’d read it over and over again.

  Penelope was watching her. Her sister-in-law knew some of what had transpired between her and Sebastian, she had guessed some of it, but Margaret had only told her they’d formed an attachment.

  “He wanted me to return to London with him—to continue our affair,” she admitted, and Penelope didn’t look the slightest bit shocked. She only nodded, encouraging Margaret to go on.

  “I told him no.” She couldn’t stop the tear that escaped past her lashes. “Before everything happened, we agreed that he’d write to me to share his adventures.” She lifted the letter. “He doesn’t wish to break his promise.”

  Penelope nodded again.

  “It is best that I remained here,” Margaret stated firmly. “Had I gone with him, I only would have been hurt worse. I would have grown more attached, and I don’t know how I would have endured that. It would have been devastating to watch him sail away.” And now she was angry with him.

  “What do you intend to do?” Penelope finally asked.

  Margaret shook her head. Why had he written? She’d been doing so well! “I’m going to do absolutely nothing.” She would spend a lovely Christmas with her family and do her best to forget Sebastian Wright. She wouldn’t hear from him again. He’d sailed already and would be exploring all the things he’d longed to explore.

  “It was only a fling.” If only she could convince her heart of this, then perhaps she could move on.

  The Atlantic Ocean, December 8th, 1828

  Maggie,

  I can’t send this now because I’m writing from the ship. Perhaps I won’t send it at all. This crossing is everything I imagined but also so much more and also so much less.

  I think you would want to know the things a person missed while on a ship.

  Land. It seems like an ironic sentiment. There is an exhilaration that comes along with being surrounded by water but also the sense of knowing one’s feet are set upon a firm foundation. Also, lying in the grass with Maggie, under the sky.

  Fresh air. Again, this one seems ironic. Some days, the air is fresh but depending on the wind and the extent to which we use the engines, soot permeates everything. For three days last week, smoke hovered in the air along with a musty, moldy smell. I’d do anything rig
ht now to bury my face in your neck. I should have stolen one of your handkerchiefs or stockings when I left. That way I could remind myself of your scent when I lay in bed at night. Which brings me to number three.

  Maggie’s hair. Nothing in the world feels the same as Maggie’s hair, or her skin, or her lips. And number four.

  Sex. An obvious one, I’d imagine.

  Maggie.

  Ignore my ramblings. I think you get the gist of life at sea.

  Yours,

  Sebastian

  The Atlantic Ocean (still), Dec. 14th, 1828

  Maggie,

  Wind kicked up the day after I wrote last, and I’ve hardly had a moment to myself since. I’ve come to have enormous respect for Captain Elmer Edwards (Eddie). Before we set sail, I made it known that I would not sail as the owner but as part of the crew, but he insisted I have my own chamber, and I’ll admit I’m grateful for that. These men work every damn minute of every waking hour (which is most of them if we happen to be weathering a storm.) There’s no rest, luv, and few of them ever complain. Day and night, in the wind, waves crashing on deck. Never a moment without something to do. Now that we’ve passed through the storm, everybody paints. Every. Damn. Board. Every accessible board. The ship smells of paint now. What I’d do to be walking on the beach with you right now.

  When I take you sailing, we’re going to do it in the summer. The wind is cold, the water is frigid, and an eternal chill has settled into my bones.

  Things I miss.

  A hot bath.

  Sleeping on a bed that isn’t moving.

  Hearing your voice, your opinions, your ideas.

  Sex. (Don’t hate me for being honest)

  Yours,

  Sebastian.

  New York City, Christmas Eve, 1828

  Maggie,

  I sit here, in an elegant chamber of the magnificent home of Mr. Peter Evans, an American industrialist, wondering what you are doing. I am picturing you with your niece and nephew around you, sitting by the hearth and reading them a storybook. I think this would make for a happy Christmas for you.

  I had intended to rent lodgings with the rest of the crew across town but after Eddie introduced me to my host, Mr. Evans said he’d be insulted if I refused his hospitality.

  You would enjoy visiting this bustling city, but it is something of an assault upon one’s consciousness in an abstract sense. Everything is louder, faster, busier than most of England. Of course, so far, I’ve only visited two cities, but this is my perception. I believe there must be serenity in some places, farther inland. And I also hear of the barren nothingness one finds farther west.

  I must admit I am disappointed that my identity has been made known. It is ironic to me that in all of their quests for independence, an inordinate amount of society here views the English aristocracy in such high regard.

  Many young girls want nothing more than a title. Remind you of anyone?

  None of them are you. I miss you, Maggie.

  Sebastian.

  P.S.

  I can receive mail at the following address. I understand if you do not wish to write back to me. It’s possible you aren’t even reading these, which might be just as well, but I long to hear where you are, what you are doing. I miss you, Maggie.

  Land’s End, February 13th, 1829

  The letters arrived almost regularly after she received those that he’d written on board ship. He did an excellent job of describing America to her, more specifically, New York City. He seemed to move about and stay busy almost all the time, but he wrote something almost daily and posted them at least weekly…

  He missed her.

  And she missed him. Of course, she did! And yet nothing had really changed between the two of them. Had it? It didn’t matter, though, and she eventually gave up on trying to purge him from her mind. It had been foolish to try.

  With each letter he wrote, she learned a little more about him. Thoughts and fears that he’d kept to himself, likes and dislikes that she had not known. Sometimes his letters made her laugh and sometimes they set her on the brink of tears. She learned of his excitement and also his disappointments, eagerly reading each one.

  Meanwhile, she spent the remainder of the autumn at Land’s End, and the holidays as originally planned, and then an extra month. It had been good for her, and she hoped good for her brother and Penelope as well. Not only because of the hours she’d spent with little Creighton and Louella Miracle, but because she had grown closer to Penelope and Hugh.

  Whether due to time, circumstances, or something else, Margaret moved beyond feeling despair over her failure to have given birth to a live baby and was able to be helpful and supportive. The sadness that had been a sharp unending pain for so long had relegated itself to a melancholy ache.

  Pregnancy had left Penelope feeling weak and bilious most mornings for all of January, and although she attempted to keep a normal schedule, Hugh had insisted she take to her bed. Margaret was glad that she could be helpful through it all and had even learned a few things from Land’s End’s longtime housekeeper.

  Everyone was relieved, to be certain, when, on the first day of February, Penelope rose from her bed with a bloom in her cheeks just as though she’d not been a shadow of herself for over six weeks.

  Margaret had stayed on for two additional weeks after that but Pen had quickly regained her energy and it was time to go home—to move forward. She’d waited long enough and was now motivated to add a greater purpose to her life. Lady Sheffield had had the right of it. She did, indeed, have the ability to forge a unique path. It was time.

  Sebastian’s letters, in fact, had planted a few ideas as to what she wanted to look into but she would need to be in London to pursue them.

  “I hate for you to go,” Penelope commented for the twelfth time that day as the two of them lounged in the drawing room on the last afternoon of her extended visit.

  “A part of me does too. It would be so easy to stay but I am ready.” And she was. “Spending this winter has meant more to me than you can ever know. I don’t know what I would have done without you and Hugh—and the babies.” Margaret truly felt like Penelope was her family now

  “But you have been a great help to us. I’m only pleased to see some hope in your eyes now. We were concerned, those first few weeks especially.” Penelope halted her knitting. “He has not returned from America?”

  “I doubt he will for months, possibly years. He is currently in New York.” Or he had been when she had received his last letter. She had no idea where he might be in that moment.

  A strange city. A strange country. So very far away. She stifled the urge to run upstairs and read his letters again.

  “What did he say in the last letter?” Penelope ventured to ask tentatively. Penelope’s questions no longer made Margaret uncomfortable. They were friends, now, as well as sisters. Margaret would miss her dreadfully after she’d gone.

  “He’s told me about the never-ending busyness that seems to drive Americans—an almost frenzied quest for wealth. But also, of the poverty there. It’s a nation of immigrants.” She exhaled a shivery breath. “And that he misses me.” Margaret held Penelope’s gaze.

  “Do you still love him?”

  She wished she did not. The pain of his leaving wasn’t as sharp as it had been right after, but it had left an ever-present emptiness. “No. Yes. I don’t know,” Margaret answered honestly. Having loved and lost Sebastian Wright was proving to be bittersweet, indeed. “I think I will probably love him forever.”

  Penelope rose and crossed to sit beside her before Margaret could do anything to stem her tears. “I’m all right,” she insisted on a sob. She had thought she was doing so well, but now she was faced with a lengthy and tedious journey herself. When she arrived in London, aside from a few friends, she would be alone—at least until the Season commenced. “I’m sorry to be such a ninny.”

  “Hush,” Penelope said into Margaret’s hair. “If I have learned one thing from ever
ything that happened between Hugh and me during the first year of our marriage, it is that sometimes even that which seems utterly hopeless is possible.”

  Margaret shook her head. “But it is hopeless. I have accepted that.”

  “Perhaps,” Penelope conceded. “But perhaps not.”

  27

  His Mother

  London March 2nd, 1829

  “Lady Asherton.” The refined butler bowed as he exited the room, leaving Margaret alone with the Duchess of Standish.

  Sebastian had his mother’s eyes. And her smile.

  The woman rose and took Margaret’s hand graciously. She was Sebastian’s mother and yet she didn’t seem all that old—five and forty perhaps. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Asherton. I understand you have just returned to London. You must be pleased to be home. Sit down, won’t you?” The duchess gestured toward a high-backed emerald velvet chair before lowering herself onto its twin. “When Rockingham informed me of his uncle’s disgrace, I was mortified and am utterly grateful that I can apologize to you finally for my brother’s atrocious behavior. If I had known his intentions, I never would have sent Sebastian with the ring.”

  Her heart lurched to hear his name but, remembering why she had come, Margaret reached into her reticule and withdrew a small velvet pouch. She’d carried it with her all the way from Land’s End, despite her brother’s protests. “I apologize that it’s taken me so long to return this to your family.”

  Returning the ring to the family gave her a sense of closure. Or it ought to have, anyway.

  “George is lucky you didn’t toss it into the Atlantic. He deserved nothing less.” The duchess tipped the pouch and dropped the auspicious jewelry into her palm. “I’ve never cared for it myself.” She examined it. “But I suppose it is something of a family heirloom. My sincere thanks, all the same.” The duchess turned and tugged at the bell pull, summoning a servant almost instantly. “You will have tea with me.”